The hall lights dimmed slightly, signaling the start of the evening's main program. The opening speech, a polished address from the Foundation's chairman, began.
Just as the speech reached its midpoint, Noren appeared swiftly by their table. He leaned in close to Alexander, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. Claire, positioned so close, barely caught fragments of his hushed words: "...translator... Madame Dubois... sudden collapse... Monsieur Dubois ready... no backup..."
Alexander's jaw tightened instantly. His eyes, already sharp, narrowed into cold, dangerous slits. His face, usually a mask of unyielding control, darkened with a flash of raw, undisguised fury. He walked directly away from the table, heading towards the discreet side door that led backstage, Noren following close behind, a nervous energy clinging to them both.
Claire watched him go, a sense of foreboding settling in. She heard the faint, urgent whispers of staff from the direction Alexander had taken. Quietly, she excused herself from the table, offering a vague gesture to the bewildered relatives, and followed.
She found Alexander backstage, a whirlwind of frantic activity. The event manager looked utterly distraught, wringing his hands, his face pale with alarm. Alexander stood in the center, his posture rigid, his face a thundercloud, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the agitated murmurs. "Find anyone! I don't care! Get someone on that stage now! This is unacceptable!" His voice, though controlled, vibrated with barely contained fury.
Claire's breath caught as she saw Noren still whispering urgently to Alexander, explaining the severity of the situation, the sudden collapse of the main translator, the sheer lack of suitable alternatives. Alexander's fury seemed to grow with each hushed word, his gaze sweeping over the harried staff with palpable impatience and rising indignation.
"Mr. Noren" Claire interjected softly, stepping forward from the shadows of the backstage area, her voice clear and remarkably calm amidst the chaos, cutting through the rising panic. Alexander's blazing gaze, previously fixed on the hapless manager, snapped to her, his anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by a flicker of bewildered surprise. "I can do it."
Alexander simply stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, an incredulous look replacing his fury. Noren, overhearing her, looked at her in desperate hope, then back at Alexander, confusion clouding his distraught face.
"You?" Alexander finally managed, his voice flat, tinged with disbelief, the word more a statement of profound shock than a question. He scanned her face, searching for any hint of a jest, any flicker of hesitation or uncertainty.
"Yes," Claire affirmed, her resolve firming with each passing second, her chin lifting subtly. Her confidence, quiet but absolute, was a revelation, an unexpected facet of her character suddenly unveiled.
Alexander's sharp glance lingered on her for another long second, his eyes piercing, searching, analyzing. He saw no bluff. He hesitated, then, his hand shooting out, he pointed a decisive finger directly at her. "You will do it," he stated, his voice clipped, absolute, leaving no room for argument.
A few minutes later, Claire stood beside the distinguished Monsieur Dubois on the brightly lit stage. The spotlights felt intense, almost too harsh, and the murmuring crowd below transformed into a vast, expectant sea of faces. Alexander watched from his prominent table in the front row, his expression carefully composed, betraying little, but his gaze never leaving her. Across the room, Grandpa Arthur Sterling, the family patriarch, seated among the VIPs, leaned forward, watching with keen interest, a subtle smile playing on his lips. And near him, Eleanor Sterling, her usual imperious mask firmly in place, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a look of profound skepticism and barely concealed annoyance twisting her elegant features.
Monsieur Dubois began his address, his words flowing in rapid, articulate French, filled with complex economic theories and philanthropic visions. Claire took a deep, steadying breath, and then, her voice clear, calm, and astonishingly professional, she began to translate. Her French was impeccable, her English equally precise and eloquent. She didn't just translate words; she conveyed the nuances, the tone, the subtle wit, and the intricate concepts with astonishing clarity and grace. Her voice resonated confidently through the grand ballroom, commanding the attention of the rapt audience, carrying the translation with an effortless ease that spoke of true mastery. A wave of silent awe rippled through the attendees as her flawless, confident rendition unfolded.
Alexander though his face remained largely unreadable, a subtle softening around his mouth, an almost imperceptible pride in his eyes, hinted at his internal state. He was quite amazed by her unexpected talent, a hidden depth he had completely overlooked.
Across the room, Grandpa Arthur Sterling, a man who rarely showed overt emotion, nodded slowly, a genuine, approving smile spreading across his stern face.
Eleanor Sterling, however, sat rigid in her seat, her perfectly manicured hand clenched imperceptibly on her champagne flute. The subtle smile she usually wore was gone, replaced by a thin, tight line of pure displeasure. Claire, the unexpected element, the one she had dismissed as a mere pawn, was shining, captivating the room, and directly undermining Eleanor's careful plans and perceived superiority. The effortless success felt like a personal affront. Eleanor was both amazed and annoyed – amazed by Claire's unexpected skill, and profoundly annoyed that this 'substitute' had proven herself so capable in such a public, important setting.
As Monsieur Dubois concluded, the ballroom erupted in thunderous applause. Alexander gaze sweeping over the audience, seeing the collective admiration in their faces. He subtly observed the executives around him, who were now clapping vigorously.
Alexander's eyes, cold and assessing, slightly changed, a hint of something calculating, satisfied, and perhaps even intrigued replacing their earlier intensity.
When the translation was over, Alexander rose from his seat with his customary decisive movement. He strode onto the stage, his presence immediately commanding. He reached Claire, his gaze brief, assessing, and then he simply took her hand, his fingers closing firmly around hers. Claire was slightly taken aback by the sudden, public gesture, a jolt of surprise running through her. Their gazes met for a fleeting moment, and in Alexander's calm, composed reaction, she understood the unspoken command. This was part of the performance. This was how they would present themselves. She had to take his hand. She had to smile. And that's precisely what she did, a radiant, albeit carefully constructed, smile gracing her lips as they turned together to face the surging applause and the sea of impressed faces.
Together, they descended the stage, a picture of a powerful, harmonious couple, a perfectly orchestrated display of unity. They maintained the seamless, smiling facade all the way back to their table, navigating the congratulatory murmurs and appreciative glances of the guests. But the moment they reached their seats, the instant his hand was no longer required for public display, Claire quickly, almost imperceptibly, pulled her hand away from his. Alexander, sensing her withdrawal, simply cleared his throat, a low, guttural sound that was barely audible over the din of the room, and sat down, his face instantly resuming its cold, unreadable mask.
From across the ballroom, Saphrina Vance watched the entire scene unfold with keen, assessing eyes. She had heard the whispers, the rumors of Alexander marriage, and had pictured Claire as some meek, insignificant wallflower. But now, seeing her on stage, commanding the attention of the room with her eloquent translation, standing confidently on Alexander's arm, and witnessing that rare, public display of composure and quiet power, a pang of something sharp and unwelcome pierced Saphrina's carefully constructed composure.
Lunch service began, the staff moving with diligent precision, replenishing glasses and offering exquisite dishes. The polite chatter resumed, covering the undercurrents of surprise and judgment. Evelyn, ever observant, spotted Eleanor Sterling, Alexander's formidable grandmother, stepping away from their table, engaged in an animated phone conversation near a secluded alcove. Seeing her chance, Evelyn subtly excused herself and approached Eleanor, waiting patiently for the call to end.
Eleanor concluded her call with a terse word and a decisive snap of her phone. She turned, her imperious gaze falling on Evelyn. She offered only a brief glance, a dismissive nod that barely acknowledged Evelyn's presence.
"Mrs. Sterling," Evelyn greeted, her voice a practiced blend of respect and honeyed concern. "I know Mrs. Sterling might feel a little upset by... recent events, but now Claire is truly your daughter-in-law. Perhaps it's time to... loosen up a little, to embrace her fully." Evelyn began her honeyed, persuasive talk, trying to smooth over the perceived awkwardness, and perhaps, to gain favor by appearing understanding.
Eleanor gave a thin, almost brittle smile, a flicker of something close to regret in her eyes that quickly vanished. "Mrs. Hayes," she said, her voice a cool, cutting whisper that carried no warmth, "your family certainly knows how to create... disruptions. And annoy people." Eleanor's gaze hardened, a deep-seated frustration radiating from her. She truly regretted her initial assessment. She had thought that Mr. Hayes's daughter, renowned for her intelligence and dignified bearing, would be the perfect future wife for Alexander. When Eleanor had first seen Serene at a charity birthday party, witnessing her impressive calm and skill when a guest suddenly fainted, she had been deeply impressed. Serene's intelligence combined with her extreme beauty had convinced Eleanor that she was the perfect match for Alexander, the ideal Sterling bride. And now, this—her actual daughter-in-law was a girl who constantly radiated an air of unhappiness, living under the Sterling roof, carrying the weight of a substitute. The contrast between her initial hopes for Serene and the reality of Claire chafed at Eleanor's rigid sense of order and propriety.
Evelyn's smooth facade faltered for a moment, and she gave an inward sigh as Eleanor, with a dismissive turn, walked away, rejoining a group of other prominent guests. Evelyn's gaze then drifted across the room, landing on Claire, who was now engaged in a polite conversation, Alexander still seated stoically beside her. A sharp pang of envy, a bitter twist of what-might-have-been, came to Evelyn. It should be Serene in Alexander's arms, by his side, shining in this spotlight. Not Claire. The resentment burned, a silent testament to her own thwarted ambitions.